The Price for Sentiment
by Sherlockianfangirl36
Summary: (Previously titled "The Woman That Mattered the Most." Sherlock is forced to solve puzzles as a way to bargain for the life of Molly Hooper. Slowly, he begins to realize that he may lose the only woman he ever could care for. But who is after her? Is it Moriarty, or someone equally as sinister? There will be a lot of Sherlolly later. Set after HLV (currently stalled).
1. The One I'm After Next

"This murder was reported on the news hours ago. Why, if you are so desperate for my help, have you just now contacted me?" Sherlock demanded, standing outside a freezing London night. As always, he was dressed in his long belstaff coat (collar turned up), and his warm blue scarf.

"Well I didn't think this case would be of much interest to you, until one of my boys made a discovery; just found it about an hour ago." Lestrade answered, indifferent to the obvious irritation in Sherlock's voice.

"As apparently you neither see nor observe," Sherlock grumbled. John rolled his eyes.

"What exactly are we here to see, Lestrade?" John asked, trying to cut Sherlock off from insulting the detective inspector any further.

"Come right this way and you can see for yourselves," he said while motioning to the building before them.

Lestrade stepped in front of them, ducking beneath the yellow tape of the crime scene, and entering the domicile in which the murder had taken place.

Sherlock followed behind Lestrade with John on his heels.

"You best look at the body first, Dr. Watson," said Lestrade.

He nodded in assent and the group walked into a scantily furnished bedroom, covered in blood. There was not a surface in the room (ceiling included) that was not soaked with the victim's blood.

Neither John nor Sherlock were unaccustomed to seeing blood. John had seen his fair share as a soldier, and to Sherlock it was merely a sight that accompanied his eccentric choice of employment.

But the amount of blood they saw in that room was shocking; on John's face, it showed, and even though Sherlock tried to retain a stoic countenance, he could not help but widen his eyes and gasp slightly.

Snapped out of his trance by the direction of Lestrade, John went around the bed in the center of the room, and bent over to examine the body on the ground. The corpse, or what had been left of it, was mutilated beyond recognition, explaining quickly the blood that lined all surfaces of the room.

"Well whoever did it," John began, "Most certainly had something personal against this man. I'd say he's been dead about...twelve hours, at most. Looks like he died from a blunt force trauma wound," He said pointing at the man's fractured skull, "And afterwards, the murderer decided to mutilate his corpse for good measure. Both arms are nearly severed and his throat has been slit."

"Our murderer has a flair for the dramatic," Sherlock surmised, "He wanted there to be an unorthodox amount of blood, whether to try and get the attention of the press or to simply get the most out of what seems to be a routine revenge murder, I have yet to ascertain."

After taking in his surroundings, Sherlock opened his mouth again to comment, "Why am I here, Lestrade? There are dozens of murders every week, and you don't bother asking my help with those, no matter how gory. What makes this one so unique?"

Lestrade swallowed, "You were sent for. Special request."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes, "By whom, may I ask?"

"The murderer," Lestrade answered simply. "Follow me."

The three had walked halfway through the short (and blood-streaked) hallway before they were interrupted by a voice that made Sherlock's skin crawl.

"Hello, freak."

Donovan looked at him from across the hallway, arms folded across her chest. John and Lestrade turned to watch the rivals bicker.

John stiffened, and Sherlock turned around slowly, "Agent Donovan," he flashed her his best fake smile, "I'm delighted to see you as always. Give my love to Anderson," He paused, pretending to turn around, before resuming, "Oh, wait...Anderson quit seeing you, did he not? That is quite a shame."

Donovan unfolded her arms and walked to close the gap between herself and the detective. Lestrade and John backed away from the two.

"I don't know what happened with Anderson, Freak," she started, lowering her voice so that only Sherlock could hear her, "But I don't care what they say about you on the news. You were behind those crimes. No one is that clever, not even you. And what's more, I'll prove you've got something to do with this one, too. What murderer asks for a detective to solve his crime?"

Sherlock inhaled sharply before replying, "Not even I am that dramatic, Donovan, to hire myself to solve a murder I committed."

She smirked, "We'll see."

Sherlock raised his chin, and turned back to face Lestrade again, "Show me the muderer's invitation."

"Right," Lestrade answered curtly, "Come with me."

They walked down the hallway past several rooms before they came to the place of interest: The sitting-room.

All the furniture had been moved haphazardly so that the wall facing whoever entered the room was fully exposed. There, on the wall, written in blood, was this:

 **Oh, Dear Sherlock**

 **It seems I was a bit careless,**

 **It seems there was a friend I missed.**

 **You see, the one the mattered most,**

 **Is the one I'm after next**

 **Solve this crime**

 **And perhaps, just perhaps,**

 **I'll grant her some extra time**

 **Did you miss me?**

Sherlock stared wide-eyed at the short crimson poem.

"Do you know what it means, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.

He received no answer.

"Sherlock?" John asked, before shaking him, "Do you know what it means?"

He put his head in his hands and rubbed his face before regaining control of himself.

"I know exactly what it means. We need to find Molly Hooper. Quickly."


	2. Battle Plans

Sherlock Holmes was slumped in a chair in Molly Hooper's flat, contemplating the situation in silence, his slender fingers piqued beneath his chin.

"I'm sorry about this, Miss Hooper," Lestrade apologized, "but you're going to need to stay put until further notice. We'll send another officer by to watch over your flat."

"What exactly is going on here? You rushed me out of Bart's and still haven't told me why!" Molly panicked, pacing around near the front door. Sherlock and John had burst into his office, accompanied by a policeman, of all things, and taken her from her workplace, barely explaining anything to her the whole trip.

"Moriarty," Sherlock spoke up, causing Molly to cease her pacing, "Or at least one of his minions. He left a message threatening you; time was of the essence. I apologize for any inconvenience," Sherlock was staring intently at a fixed spot on the wall.

His soft response had calmed her more than a little bit, and she blushed slightly while answering him, "I don't understand, though. Why is he after me?"

"I don't know," he said, never once having taken his eyes off of the wall.

He did know, however. It was there on the wall, a paraphrasing of his own words. She was "the one who mattered the most." But how did Moriarty, or whoever this was, know about that? It was something he had said to her in private. Perhaps it was something he should not have said.

"Well couldn't he be using her to get at you, yeah?" John suggested, standing close by Molly, arms crossed over his chest.

Sherlock sat up rigid in his chair. Definitely something he should not have said. Molly's life was now in danger because he had uncharacteristically decided to express sentiment. Feeling. Such abhorrent things.

"Perhaps," he mumbled.

"Using me?" Molly asked innocently, "Why? If he wanted to get at Sherlock, why wouldn't he go after John, instead?"

John shifted, looking slightly uncomfortable.

"Oh, Goodness," Molly gestured with her hands, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." she trailed off, and everyone in the room remained silent: Molly resumed her pacing, Sherlock still sat deep in his thoughts, John stood with his arms crossed, and Lestrade was nervously running his fingers through his hair.

"No," John finally answered, "No. That's not right. On the wall, it said Moriarty was after the one who mattered the most to Sherlock. Obviously that doesn't mean me, or we wouldn't be here right now."

Molly started to blush again, and opened her mouth to say something objecting to his view when Sherlock spoke up,

"None of this matters right now," he said impatiently, "I think all of us here know exactly what Moriarty, or anyone in his network, to be frank, can be capable of. If he wants to hurt you, Molly, then he will. No amount of police officers will stop that," Molly crossed the room and sat down on her couch to keep from falling over, "He has given me a chance, however, to keep you safe. I have to solve his crime. He gave me no time limit, but considering who we are dealing with, I think it's safe to say that he will not give me much."

Nobody in the room spoke. Molly pressed her hands into her temples, desperately trying to keep herself from having yet another panic attack.

"What time is it now?" John asked, breaking the silence.

Lestrade consulted his watch before answering, "It's half past one in the morning, now."

Sherlock took a deep breath, and finally looked up at Lestrade, "I will start investigating later today. I think it's best to concentrate primarily on keeping Molly safe at present."

"Right," Lestrade piped up, "I'll call in now and have an officer co-"

"No," Sherlock said, interrupting him, "Anyone you could send from Scotland Yard would be too incompetent to know what to do if faced with a situation involving Moriarty or his minions," he paused, "I will stay with Miss Hooper tonight," he pushed himself off of his chair and moved towards John, "Did you bring your gun?"

"Of course," John answered, reaching into his coat and pulling out a small handgun, which he handed to Sherlock.

Sherlock turned around to face Molly, "Is this arrangement acceptable to you, Molly?"

She looked flustered, and made a slight attempt at answering him in English.

"I will take that as a yes. Lestrade, I suggest you go back to Scotland Yard; bring me all the facts about the murder. I will need them quite quickly."

"Alright then," he said, brushing his way past John to open the door, "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"What can I do to help?" John asked.

"Go home to Mary," Sherlock said, "Your wife will require you more than I."

John looked down at the floor, "Are you sure, Sherlock? I want Molly to be safe as much as you do."

Sherlock looked him in the eye, "Yes, I am quite sure. If you want to help me, it would be better if you were well rested; you get so stup-" Sherlock paused, checking himself, "I mean, you don't function well on small amounts of sleep."

John uncrossed his arms, "OK, then. If you're absolutely sure..."

"I am," he replied calmly, "I will text you instructions later," Sherlock told him while he was exiting the flat.

Molly looked up at Sherlock from where she was seated, "Sherlock, why is this happening? I don't understand why someone would do this." Molly honestly could not fathom why Moriarty would use anyone but John against Sherlock. She knew how much he meant to him. Sometimes she wondered in the back of her mind if there was more than just a friendship between the two. Well, on Sherlock's side, anyway.

Sherlock crossed over to her and got on his knees so they were at eye level.

She'd never been this close to him before. She could feel his breath gently blowing against her hair while he answered her in his oh-so-deep, smooth voice.

"I don't know, Molly." He did know. He knew exactly why someone would use her against him.

"Am I going to die?" She asked, terrified.

"Not while I am here with you," he grazed her hand with his, deciding against it a second later. There was no reason for him to feel an urge to touch her. No _logical_ reason.

Molly was disconcerted by his touch, but presently composed herself enough to ask, "What about after that, Sherlock?"

"I promise you I am going to do my best to keep you safe." He knew he shouldn't be having to say this. If only he keep himself from feeling anything for the fragile pathologist, she would not be threatened, and he would not be...whatever it was he was feeling now.


	3. Richard M

Molly was startled by Lestrade entering her flat.

 _Rather rude to not knock first._

But anything would have startled her in that moment. Sherlock had just sat there by her. So, so close to her.

She silently cursed Lestrade when his entering of the flat tore Sherlock's attention away from her and back to the case her life depended on.

 _You need to remember your priorities. It's alone time with Sherlock, or your life._

She looked at the rich curls framing his slender face.

. _Well.._

If there had been one good thing that had come from this whole being threatened by a psychotic murderer thing, it had been that. It had been feeling Sherlock's warm breath against her hair, and listening to his deep, sultry voice whisper promises of his protection.

Honestly though, was it mentally unhealthy to be happy that someone was trying to kill her?

It was. It definitely was. And yet, Molly could not help smiling softly to herself each time she thought about it. Not the someone wanting to murder her thing. Just the, um, _side effects..._ She could only wish that Sherlock felt the same way.

No matter what, in the back of her mind, she could not help but think that he was already in love with someone else. She could see it in his eyes.

Lestrade dramatically flopped the stack of papers onto the table in Molly's kitchen, rudely interrupting Molly's thoughts, and speaking to Sherlock as he did so,

"The victim's name is Richard Morrell. He was a freelance photographer-and not a very good one, from what I hear. He counted on making it big, though, and bit off a bit more than he could chew in his choice place to live. He would have been evicted in the next few weeks if he hadn't been killed," Lestrade continued to explain, "The landlady did say that he didn't seem to have any intention of moving out anytime time soon, though. Not too pleased with him."

"Hmmm," Sherlock murmured to himself, rising from where he knelt by Molly, and crossing the room.

 _Darn you, Lestrade,_ Molly thought.

"Why would he not just move?" Sherlock thought out loud.

"You're in charge her," Lestrade answered, "You tell me."

"Well you are, in a sense, also a detective, Jeff," Lestrade rolled his eyes, too tired to even bother correcting Sherlock. God knows he'd done it enough times already.

Sherlock made his way over to the table and began to unceremoniously rifle through the papers.

 _He could have just moved-found cheaper accommodations, but he didn't. Why?_

 _He has several minor charges on his record. Nothing serious. Could he have been involved in something bigger?_

 _He must have been. Why would anyone murder him if he wasn't?_

 _What if he wasn't; what if it was classic revenge?_

"Lestrade," Sherlock muttered, not taking his eyes off the papers, "Were any prints found at the crime scene?"

"Nothing," he answered, "No prints, no murder weapon. All we got was a mutilated corpse, a blood soaked house, and a puddle of water."

Sherlock jerked his head, "Water?" He asked, "I did not see any water."

"Yeah, well," Lestrade started, looking down at the ground, "There wasn't much there, and our forensics man collected it to be examined."

"He's stupider than Anderson was then!" Sherlock shouted, pounding his fist on the table, "I should have been told about this immediately!"

Lestrade looked puzzled, "What's so important about a puddle of water, Sherlock?"

He sighed in answer, "Honestly, do you not have anything in your head?" Lestrade sighed, "The puddle of water, combined with the lack of prints and a weapon, tells us that our killer is skilled, to say the least. Either that, or someone helped him plan out this murder. Someone who knew what they were doing," Sherlock paused to think, "Someone who wanted to be novel in their choice of weapon."

Molly listened to all that Sherlock had said in silence, trying to follow his train of thought, but instead becoming increasingly distracted by the way his dark curls fell across his forehead. Always the curls.

Sherlock continued to think out loud, "All that leaves me to find is the motive..."

"And the killer," Lestrade suggested, "Don't forget about him."

"Yes, yes," SHerlock answered impatiently, "In time."

 _A poor photographer living in an upscale neighborhood, with no apparent plans to move out is viciously murder._

 _ **Viciously.** That suggests the murder was personal in nature. A rivalry, perhaps?_

 _He needed money, and he needed it quickly. God knows he wasn't going to get it taking pictures, no. He'd have to find another way to come up with the cash._

 _Now how could a rapidly sinking photographer come up with enough money to keep his house?_

 _Obvious._

"Lestrade," he said, perking up, "I need you to find out all his acquaintances: friends, relatives, clients, anything. You won't find prints; don't bother looking. Oh, and the murder weapon. That's gone for good, too."

"Well what was it?" he asked, becoming increasingly irritated.

Sherlock smirked, "What no one else would think to use."

Lestrade chuckled derisively, looking down at his shoes, and rubbing at his face, "I swear to God, Sherlock, if you don't actually know anything abou-"

"On the contrary, I know exactly what happened," he answered calmly, "And now, I'm on the verge of solving a very important case," he turned to Molly, "If we would allow ourselves to be hopeful, I'd say you were safe for a while," he paused, inhaling sharply, "But I know the man I'm dealing with. If he wants to get to me, he is not going to leave you be," he stopped, putting his hands into the pockets of the coat he's never bothered to take off, "If you don't mind, I may have to move in with you. Indefinitely. To ensure your safety."

Molly's eyes went wide as she met Sherlock's stare, "I, umm...well, I suppose-if you had, I mean absolutely thought it necessary, then, umm..." Molly forced herself to be composed, "Yes, I suppose that would be alright."

"Good," Sherlock said, turning around the other way, "I'm going to have to ask John to bring my things here-I hope he's not already asleep."

Molly didn't care if he was asleep. She didn't care if Lestrade was giggling at her stammering. She didn't care if Richard Morrell had been murdered, with no prints and a disappearing murder weapon, and she certainly didn't care about the motive.

SHERLOCK BLOODY HOLMES WANTED TO MOVE IN WITH HER!

 _It's just until he knows you'll be safe, Molly, calm yourself down._

She watched him as he turned around and took out his phone.

Is it wrong to hope for incessant murder threats to hang over one's head?

"You know," Lestrade spoke up, "I could still just send an offi-"

"No!" Molly shouted. She blushed when both of the men looked at her, "I mean...No, I'm sure Mr. Holmes will do just fine, thank you."

"Right," Lestrade chuckled, "I guess I'll go work on that list of acquaintances." Lestrade walked out the door, waving goodbye as he did.

Alone with Sherlock again. Twice in a night. Molly's stomach twisted as she thought about the way his voice sounded when he promised her he'd keep her safe. Her stomach twisted again when she forced herself up off her chair towards Sherlock. He was turned away from her, and she was tempted to reach out and touch his beautiful, seductive coat, turn him around and run her fingers through his gorgeously curled hair.

"Isn't this case fascinating, Molly?" He turned to meet her, "Do you want to know how he did it?"

He certainly knew how to kill her mood.


	4. Purple Sheets

Ya'll, I'm so sad about series 4! Since I started this fic before it came out, however, any events occurring during series 4 will be disregarded. Thanks for everyone that followed, and to amherendeen for reviewing the story.

"So, ummm, Sherlock," Molly started, leaning over the detective's shoulder as he sat at her table with the case file, "For how long do you think you'll be," she paused to swallow, "living here...with me."

Sherlock sighed, "I have not as of yet moved in," he flopped a large stack of papers over, "But I believe it is safe to say that I shall have to remain with you until your life is no longer in danger from a psychotic, possibly dead, serial killer."

 **Well,** she thought, **that's very encouraging.**

Molly backed away from him slightly. The detective that was just a moment ago giving her sweet reassurances of her life's safety was completely gone. Not that should could actually blame him for being so blunt at the moment; perhaps she needed a bit of a refutation.

She was still excited, however. Excited about a "psychotic, possibly dead, serial killer" coming from her,

 **You know that's not true,** she thought to herself, **you are not one tiny ounce excited about that.**

But...

If he wasn't after her...

Sherlock would not be sitting in her little dining room.

Sherlock Holmes would not be planning to move in with her.

Where is he going to sleep? She thought.

Molly turned away from where she was standing behind Sherlock, and walked slowly down her hall, turning left to face the small alcove she called her "laundry room." In truth, it was little more than a carved out space in her wall in which she had put up a few shelves which were now neatly stacked with rows of sheets, towels, and blankets.

 **The purple ones.**

Molly piled up her arms with a pair of deep purple bedsheets and a matching comforter. She waddled back to her living room, peering up over the stack every now and again so as to not trip over anything (namely her cat, Toby).

She managed to arrive safely at her couch, and unceremoniously plopped down her payload, exhaling sharply as she did so.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, without looking at her, which was easy enough, since he was sitting with his back to her.

"I-I'm just," she stammered, "making up a place for you to sleep tonight."

"That won't be necessary," he replied (to his paperwork), "I have already procured sleeping quarters for tonight."

Molly stiffened, "Excuse me, what?"

Sherlock turned his body in his chair so that he was now facing her, "I'll be sleeping in your bed, of course," he stated quite innocently, "That's the safest thing to do."

Molly's eyes widened. She stared.

And stared.

She imagined that her rather long bout of staring made Sherlock uncomfortable, since he looked down at the floor, and then turned back towards his papers.

 **Should I be happy?**

Molly, if the seemingly innocent pathologist was honest with herself, had had more than one late night fantasy about sharing a bed with Sherlock Holmes. But none of them, if she recalled correctly, involved her being threatened by an unapologetic serial killer.

It seemed to sink into Molly at that very moment that there was absolutely nothing pleasant (Sherlock or not) about being under threat from someone like Moriarty.

"Sherlock, I don't think-" She was cut off by a knocking at her door.

"That must be John," Sherlock said, pushing himself up out of his chair, and crossing the room with long, graceful strides.

"I thought Greg was coming back here?"

Sherlock cocked his head in confusion, before realizing she was talked about Lestrade. He sighed patiently, "Footsteps. I can tell when it's John."

He opened the door to reveal a very tired, unhappy looking John Watson carrying under his arms several bags of what Molly assumed to be Sherlock's possessions.

Sherlock motioned with his hands for John to come in, closing the door behind him when he did.

 **Well, it is his flat now, too.**

Sherlock had begun to say something when John raised up one hand to silence him quickly, "Sherlock..." He began in an unpleasant tone, "You told me a few hours ago that it was more important I stay with my wife tonight-"

"Oh, did I call you while you were in a compromising situation?" he interrupted. Molly blushed.

John raised both his eyebrows, "No, you called me at three O'clock in the morning so I could get your things and you could move in with Molly Hooper."

Sherlocked crinkled his brow, "I would assume you would know how dangerous it would be to leave Molly in the hands of one of Lestrade's incompetent men."

John sighed in response, and threw up his hands (as much as he could, while still holding all of Sherlock's bags) in resignation.

"Where should I put your things?" He asked.

"Molly's bedroom," he replied curtly.

John looked over to Molly, who was deliberately watching the floor so as to hide as much of her red face as was possible.

"Oh-Kay" He answered, drawing out the word.

When he was in the other room, Molly looked up towards Sherlock, "Sherlock," she started, "Do you really think it's appropriate for you to-"

She stopped when John entered the room again.

Sherlock looked from her to John, and then back again.

No one said anything.

After what seemed to be a long pause, Sherlock pressed his hands to John's arms and pushed him back towards Molly's room.

"Hey," he almost shouted, "What are you doing?"

Sherlock had pushed him all the way back inside her room, and barricaded his exit with his lean arms, "I think Miss Hooper would appreciate it if you waited in her room for a moment."

He slammed the door, oblivious to John's protests.

He turned back towards Molly and cocked one eyebrow, "You were saying?"

"Right," she squeaked out while clearing her throat, "I don't think it's appropriate for us to...sleep together."

Despite her efforts to remain quiet, Molly distinctly heard John's grunt of confusion from the other room.

"Molly, I assure, it is merely the simplest way that I may make sure you are safe."

She wasn't sure if that was meant to comfort her or not. Was she happy his intentions were honorable, or was she just a little bit disappointed?

Why was she protesting this?

Possibly because she just realized none of her fantasies contained an evil murderer in them. But why should she not take advantage of the situation here?

 **Interesting question,** she thought, **Maybe I should just see what happens.**

No matter what, she and Sherlock both knew she would eventually acquiesce to his wishes.

When she failed to reply to Sherlock's last statement, he questioned her, "Does it make you uncomfortable?"

She could feel the warmth in her face, "Just a bit."

Sherlock pursed his lips, "You've known me quite a long time, Molly, you do not have to be uncomfortable with me."

How could she possibly refuse that?

"Al-alright," she stammered, "If it's the safe thing to do."

Sherlock looked her back in the eye, "It is, Molly."

The two stood like that in silence for a moment.

The silence was interrupted by a muffled voice from the other room, "I'm still in here, you know."


	5. The Murder Weapon

If anybody could take the time to review, I would be eternally grateful. Hugs and kisses to everyone! Thank you all so much for reading!

Again, thanks to amherendeen, besilea, and mckydstarlight (seriously looovvveee you!) for reviewing! Xoxo

John had honestly always hoped that something of a romance would form between Molly and Sherlock, so when he heard the words "sleep together" come from Molly's mouth to Sherlock, he had no objections.

That didn't mean he wanted to hear about it while forcibly being locked in her bedroom.

When Sherlock finally opened the door to free the captive, a very confused John Watson pulled him inside by the front of his shirt and slammed the door behind him before he could say anything in protest. He could see Molly blushing in the background just before the door shut with a slam.

"Sherlock," he half-whispered, half-yelled, "What on earth is going on?"

Sherlock crinkled up his nose and moved John's hand off of his shirt, "Careful, John. I've been told I look rather dashing in this."

John inhaled sharply. He calmed himself enough to speak at a level Molly could not hear.

"Sherlock...Why didn't you tell me you and Molly were...so intimate?"

Sherlock pulled his head back quickly, "What?"

"Well, you're sleeping with her, aren't you?"

Sherlock sighed and ran a hand through his curls, "If you are referring to having sexual relations with her, then no, I am not."

John cocked his eyebrows, "Then...what was all of that?"

"Obviously, John," he began, "If you didn't notice, Molly has just been threatened by a psychopath. Lestrade's men are all too incompetent to look out for her. What other option is there but to stay with her myself?"

John moved his eyes back in forth, thinking.

"Oh-kay...Let me get this straight...You're keeping her safe by...sleeping with her?"

"Yes, John. I thought that was fairly obvious at this point."

"Sherlock..." John began, "That's not exactly necessary. Are you sure..." Sherlock raised his eyebrows, "You don't have some...ulterior motive?"

All he got for an answer was an eye-roll.

"Sherlock..." John prompted.

"Really, John!" He shouted, before lowering his voice back to a safe volume, "Really? Me? With Molly Hooper?" He chuckled, "Why would I want to sleep with Molly Hooper?"

John stared at him a minute, unable to answer.

"Alright, you know what? I'm going home now," he opened the door of Molly's room, "Have fun...With...Whatever it is you and Molly are doing."

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," he stepped out of the room, and saw Molly in the kitchen, where, he hoped, she had not been able to hear the discussion he and Sherlock had just had, "Goodnight, Molly!"

"Goodnight, John!" She said with a smile.

When he was out of the flat, Molly looked at Sherlock and innocently asked, "What was that all about?"

Sherlock just smiled.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Moments after John had left, Lestrade had returned to bring Sherlock an armful of papers.

 **Lord, I wish all you people would let me go to bed already.** She gulped. **Bed. With Sherlock.**

She had been thinking about nothing but that ever since John had left and Sherlock had resumed his investigation (all in his "mind palace" [ **What on earth does that even mean?** ]). Her body, occupying the same bed as that of Sherlock Holmes's. Would he sleep right next to her to keep her safe, or would he distance himself to what he would deem an appropriate amount?

She doubted there was much hope for him sleeping right next to her. Highly doubted. What could he possibly want with someone he had labeled as having small lips and inadequately sized breasts? Would she even want him to try anything when her mind was more pressed with the fact that she had threats from a psychopath hanging over her head?

Molly slowed the thoughts in her head long enough to eavesdrop on the conversation between the two detectives across the room, currently seated at her dining-room/kitchen table.

"Think," She heard Sherlock say irritably, "It should be obvious, even to you." Greg made a face at him, and Sherlock sighed in exasperation, "Look, Richard Morrell was a poor photographer, he had numerous run-ins with the law for petty crime, and, you should note, he was incredibly close to being evicted from his home. What does that tell you?"

Greg pursed his lips together for a moment, before finally replying patiently to Sherlock, "I don't know. I brought you so you could tell me."

"No," Sherlock answered, "You brought me because I was invited by the murderer to protect someone; solving your murder case just happened to be one of the perks along the way."

Molly turned her body (now seated on her favorite chair in her living room) surreptitiously to the side so she could view Sherlock's face clearly.

 **One?** She thought. **Does that mean there are more than one perks to this murder? I'm glad he thinks so, too,** she thought sarcastically.

Molly did not believe that their thoughts on the matter could be more different. She was terrified. Her life was in danger, and, just to top it off, she was going to bed with the man she had been in love with the last seven years. Nothing could be more terrifying than that. She still was not quite sure she wanted it.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was excited by the prospect of a brutal homicide.

 **What a lovely man I have chosen!**

"Alright, Lestrade," Molly's attention snapped back to their conversation, "Let me put it differently...If you were a minor criminal, possibly with some rich clients, and you needed money to continue an overly-extravagant lifestyle, how would you do it?"

Molly figured out the answer a second before Greg did, "Blackmail," she said.

Sherlock's head snapped in her direction, "Sorry, what?"

Molly blushed, and pulled at her sleeve, "Well, i-if I was a photographer, and I needed money...and I had rich clients...I suppose there could be some photographs I had that they didn't want to get to the public? Maybe I could have even taken them without their knowledge," she paused to take a deep breath, "So, yeah...Blackmail."

Sherlock blinked at her for a few seconds, making her very uncomfortable. Her eyes shifted down to the floor.

"Molly," Sherlock started, "That...You're right. Absolutely," Sherlock paused for quite some time, just staring at Molly, before turning to Lestrade, and saying, "You better keep your eyes open, Lestrade. At this point, she could easily replace you."

Molly chuckled a little bit when Greg rolled his eyes.

"So I suppose if we find who he had photos of, we could find the killer?" He asked.

"More than likely," Sherlock responded, giving his full attention to the papers Lestrade had brought for him.

"And how are we going to do that?"

"Simple," he answered curtly.

Lestrade cocked his head to the side, "Would you mind expounding on that?"

"Well," he said, returning his attention to his interlocutor, "you seem to have done an adequate job in bringing me a file on all of Richard Morrell's acquaintances and clients. I assume you found the records in his flat?" Lestrade nodded, "Ah, lucky our victim still kept old-fashioned paper records. Tell me, what kind of man do you think would do this? He left a big clue, if you were paying enough attention."

Lestrade blinked at him.

Sherlock let out a deep sigh and ran his fingers through his dark curls, "The murder weapon, Lestrade, the murder weapon. Or," he started again after a pause, "It would more likely be weapons, plural, given the state of the corpse. So many stab wounds...:

Lestrade grimaced, "There was no murder weapon, Sherlock. We found nothing."

"You didn't need to. The clue was in the water you found at the crime scene."

"The...Water...?" He questioned.

"You know what I like about this case?" Sherlock began, as he stood up and began to pace the room, "It's so...bizarre, really. It's the first time I have seen a murderer get so creative with their weapon. It's really quite-"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade interrupted, "Get to the point, please!"

Sherlock stared innocently at Lestrade, "No need to be so impatient; I was getting to the point soon enough."

"Well, start explaining now, and maybe I can get home before the end of the week."

"Ah, your wit is appreciated, as always. Now," he began his explanation, "What our murder weapons tell us-"

"Weapons?" Molly asked, becoming more interested in their conversation than she had been previously.

"I'm getting to that. As I was saying, what they tell us is that our murderer is intelligent, creative...It's possible he's been tried for other crimes in the past and acquitted. We can also reasonably assume that he is well off in respect to money. So, we've got a bit to go on, here. Lestrade, what kind of weapon would virtually disappear, leaving nothing but a large puddle of water?

Once again, the answer clicked in Molly's head just a moment sooner, "Oh!" She exclaimed, "I know, I read it in a novel, once!" She blushed again as both men turned to look at her, "The-there was this man who murdered someone else by stabbing them with an icicle."

"Very good," SHerlock started, "But he died from blunt force trauma."

Molly pursed her lips, "An ice block, in that case. There's plenty of ice all round right about now. I saw the file," she blushed slightly, "While you and John were, umm...talking. He could've been initially killed with an ice block, then cut and stabbed with something sharper. An icicle."

Sherlock stared at Molly, and, if she did not know him better, she would have said he started to blush slightly.

"That's...right. Again." He cocked his head and smiled at her.

 **Well, maybe things could conceivably get interesting later.**

"It is, in fact, possible," he resumed his speech to Lestrade, "to stab someone with an icicle. And given the number of stab wounds on the body-53, I believe it was?-there definitely had to have been more than one. I believe you should have noticed all the icicles hanging just about everywhere; it is January, after all. Our murderer could have gotten his weapon practically anywhere. Brilliant..."

"Brilliant, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, disapprovingly.

Sherlock cleared his throat, and glanced at Molly, "Sorry, not good?"

"Just a bit," Both Lestrade and Molly replied at the same time.

Sherlock silently returned to his seat at the table and began sorting through the files again.

"Have you got anything yet?"

Sherlock handed Lestrade a file, "Here. If I recall correctly, I read a few articles about this man-the editor for a popular magazine- being tried for several crimes-one of which being murder-only to be acquitted for lack of evidence."

Lestrade ran a hand over his face, "Well then, how am I supposed to make sure he gets convicted this time?"

"Mmmm..." Sherlock grumbled, "He may have kept the photographs, most likely of his wife. I also recall reading several articles in a gossip column regarding her more...promiscuous lifestyle. She gained a bit of attention once her husband was in the spotlight."

"How does that help us?"

"You saw how much blood was at that crime scene. I find it highly unlikely the suspect could touch the photos without getting something on them. And there's not really a way to clean blood off a photograph without ruining it."

"Well who says he even kept the photos at all?" Lestrade asked in an irritated voice, more than a little bit upset that Sherlock could solve his cases so much easier than he could.

Molly blocked out their bickering for a moment. Her thoughts had begun to travel a completely different path as soon as Sherlock had mentioned the wife.

"Wait," she interjected, "You said the woman was promiscuous, right? And her husband had been tried for several crimes? What if, and this may be going a bit far, but isn't it possible she hired Morrell to take the photos? To, I don't know, showcase herself? He could've kept copies for blackmail. She could've even been involved in the same crimes as her husband; she would've know something about murder, then."

Sherlock crinkled his brow, "That would mean..."

Molly finished his thought, "She murdered him, when he tried to hold the pictures against her."

"That seems to fit everything old Sherly's said," Sherlock glared at Lestrade when he that horrid shortened version of his name.

"Lestrade," he said, "You best follow up on that lead. Get a search warrant, do _something_ " He ran over to where Molly was seated and took her head in his hands, kissing her forehead, "You are brilliant!"

 **Hmmm...Tonight could be very interesting, indeed.**


	6. Preparing for Bed

For the last chapter, thank you to bether05, mckydstarlight, Andristasia Grey-Darcy, and the two guests for reviewing. Hugs and kisses to all my little high-functioning sociopathic, sherlolly-shipping friends.

Ya'll go and follow my tumblr account (my URL is i-like-your-potato).

 **Brilliant,** Sherlock thought. **She's brilliant. She solved my case.**

His eyes moved back and forth over the pathologist's petite body, glancing over things that even he, with all his powerful deduction skills, had missed. Like how well-shaped she was. How the size of her lips and breasts were not in anyway insufficient. The way her hair moved when she walked.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" he grumbled back to the man across the table from himself, never bothering to avert his eyes from Molly's body, "What do you want now?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes, "I just said I'll be back in the morning to tell you how the case is progressing."

Sherlock crinkled his brow, still not meeting the other detective's gaze, "Yes, yes," he said, making a dismissive gesture with his hand while he did so, "Go ahead, Graham."

He heard a loud sigh and the slamming of a door. He still did not look away. Molly, however, jumped at the sound.

"You don't have to be so nervous," Sherlock began, flashing her a comforting smile. It felt so odd to him. "I assure you, you are perfectly safe with me here."

Molly smiled demurely and looked down into her lap, "Well," she said, almost inaudibly, "That sort of makes it even more nerve-wracking."

 _"Why would I want to sleep with Molly Hooper?"_

 **Why, indeed.**

Deep inside, if one managed to capture Sherlock in a contemplative mood, he knew that he gave Molly no where near the amount of credit that she deserved. If nothing else, she was one of the only people in the world he knew capable of putting up with him for long periods of time. She had learned through prolonged exposure.

She started out a stammering, mousy little pathologist too afraid to say what she was thinking to him. A few years went by, and she did not stammer quite as often. Another year and Sherlock could tell she was beginning to feel all the comfort of an old friendship with him. And just now, she had begun to learn to stand her ground with him. She told him when he was being an idiot, or when he was wasting his talents; she knew so much more about the man he was than almost anyone in the world, except John.

And that was why her staying by him through everything proved her strength. Sherlock knew the kind of man he was, and he knew why he had never been able to keep friends. He also knew that Molly Hooper cared about him. She was a constant force in his life; a force that persisted in trying to coax out his more human side. That was something he wanted to remain hidden.

However, if Molly truly had a brilliant side that she kept hidden, and he and his cases managed to coax it out, would it not be fair to show her some of his humanity in exchange for her brilliance?

"Sherlock?" Molly asked, snapping him out of his reverie.

"Yes?" he answered.

"Um...I-I...Sherlock, I believe I know you fairly well-I mean, comparatively well," Sherlock tilted his head questioningly, "And umm...Well, there's just..."

"Is there a point to all of this, Molly?"

"Yes," she stated firmly, "I want to," she began to lose her nerve, "Um, ask you a personal question."

"Go ahead," he said, steepling his hands beneath his chin, "Although if it is of a personal nature, I cannot assure you I will willingly answer it."

"Well, you see...When John came over here earlier...Do you...Do you...Love him?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, "What are you implying, Miss Hooper?"

She set her jaw in a firm line, and looked him in the eye, "I believe you heard me perfectly well the first time, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, that was never in question," he paused, "Are you asking me if I'm romantically attached to my best friend?"

She swallowed, "Yes. Yes I am."

Sherlock rose from where he was seated, accidentally scattering the papers he had lain on the table onto the floor. He ignored them and began to pace.

 **What sort of question is that to ask a man who offered to sleep with her a few hours ago?**

 **It's only for her protection,** He argued with himself.

 _"Why would I want to sleep with Molly Hooper?"_

"Sh-Sherlock," Molly stammered, quite forgetting her earlier attempt at being stern, "Pick those up."

She had at least managed to end her stammerings with a peremptory command.

 **Where has this Molly Hooper been all this time?**

He glared at her slightly as he bent to pick up the papers.

"Really, Molly," he started while tidying up the mess he had made, "I didn't think you were the kind of woman to listen to everything that was said by silly reporters, gossip magazines, and newspapers," he stood up with a bundle in his arms, and set it down on the table.

She blushed, "I-I..." Molly paused to take a deep breath, "I'm not listening to silly reporters, I'm listening to _you_. I watch the way you look at him. He...He means a lot to you."

Sherlock sighed, and walked over to where Molly had seated herself, "He is my best friend. Have you not heard me say multitudinous times that I have no interest whatsoever in romantic entanglement?" He was having a hard time believing his own words at the moment.

Molly blinked up at him a few times before whispering, "Did you break the rules for him?"

Sherlock tilted his head and looked into her eyes, "No, Miss Hooper, not for him."

Sherlock turned away quickly, and walked over to the stack of papers on the table. He started to absent-mindedly reorganize them.

He was edging dangerously close to wanting something more than a friendship from Miss Hooper. If there was one thing Sherlock could admit to himself that he found...attractive, it was deduction skills. Before tonight, he had never seen Molly so clearly demonstrate the talents she obviously possessed.

Would it be so wrong to break his rules for her?

"Molly?" He asked.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Perhaps it is time you got ready for bed."

* * *

 _"No, Miss Hooper, not for him."_

Molly replayed the statement over and over again in her mind. Was he trying to imply something?

 **Not likely,** she answered herself.

 _"Have you not heard me say multitudinous times that I have no interest whatsoever in romantic entanglement?"_

If he was trying to imply something to her, then he had clearly contradicted himself.

After so many years, Molly was running out of hope for him ever revealing some long buried romantic affection for her. That was only something that happened when she was dreaming. She didn't know if he would ever realize just how much he meant to her. She didn't know if he'd ever realize just how much the way he had treated her in the past had hurt her.

Could she forget all of that if he really did reveal a hidden romantic side?

Molly did not know, and she was not terribly keen to try and figure out the answer at four O'clock in the morning, after a long day of being threatened by a serial killer. All she wanted to do was put on her favorite, fluffy pajamas, and crawl into bed.

 **WIth Sherlock** , she swallowed, hard.

She realized that Sherlock had made somewhat of an effort to be comforting to her that day, but what happened when the initial shock wore off? How hard could it be to live with Sherlock Holmes?

She had spoken with John before. She was not especially keen on having her walls spray-painted and shot at just because he could find nothing else to do.

She shook her head, trying to physically dislodge the thoughts from her mind. She walked over to her drawers and picked out a comfy pair of pajamas to don.

When she left her chair, Sherlock was still pouring over his papers, although she could not see why, if he had already solved the case. She was not entirely sure that he had any intention of joining her that night.

She had just removed her shirt to put her pajama top on when Sherlock walked into her bedroom. She gave a startled gasp when she saw his reflection in her mirror in the corner of the room, and made a quick attempt to cover herself up.

 **Heaven forbid he see my small breasts.**

He gazed at her coolly, and somewhat, if she had to describe it, analytically. She hurriedly pulled her top over her head.

"You could knock, you know," She said, blushing.

He crinkled his brow, before plainly stating, "You are much better endowed than I had previously given you credit for."

 **Was that supposed to be a compliment?**

She decided that she would rather not know.

Changing the topic, she asked, "Do you...Do you really think it could be Moriarty?" She turned and sat herself down on the end of the bed.

"Well," Sherlock replied, as he started looking through the bags John had brought him for something to sleep in, "I find it highly unlikely he is still alive. In my-blasted John didn't bring my violin-In my opinion, thus far, I would say it was a close associate of his."

"You never told me why they're threatening me." Molly turned her head when Sherlock began to unbutton his shirt. He'd lost the coat long ago.

"On the contrary, I thought I made it quite clear to you."

"No, Sherlock, you didn't," she risked a glance. Without his shirt on, she could see how beautifully pale and fit he was.

"Yes, I did," He replied coolly, turning to meet her eye, "You matter to me, Molly Hooper."


	7. Willfully Ignorant

Ok, guys...For chapter 6, thank you to amherendeen,mckydstarlight, Andristasia Grey-Darcy, and the one guest for reviewing. Also, this story used to go under the name "The Woman That Mattered the Most," but I changed it. And I never said this before, but I'm not incredibly familiar with British slang and what-not, so if I say something that sounds distinctly American, I would appreciate a PM correcting me XD

One more thing: I'm thinking about doing something new and writing Sherlolly one-shots based off of prompts from my readers. So, if ya'll have any prompts you want a story written from, leave a suggestion in the comment section, or send me a private message.

Review if you want the next chapter! Reviews make me happy! XD

"I-I...I do?" Molly managed to question, "I matter to you?"

Sherlock tilted his head, "Of course," he replied, somewhat confused, "You're the only pathologist at Bart's that will give me body parts."

Molly looked down at her hands, "Oh, if that's all..."

 **Why did you even bother asking?** she chided herself, **You know you don't mean anything more to him.**

Molly dug her fingernails into her hands to keep from tearing up.

She did not look up quickly enough to catch the soft smile on Sherlock's lips. Without bothering to put on his night shirt, he walked over to where Molly had seated herself on her bed. He kneeled in front of her, and looked up into her face.

She swallowed, trying to not be distracted by his bare skin, "What do you want, Sherlock?"

She was surprised when he reached out and touched her face, "You solved my case, Molly Hooper."

She crinkled her brows together, "W-what? No I didn't."

He smiled, "Oh, on the contrary, I just received a phone call from...from...Grant?" She shook her head, "Oh, well no matter. I received a call from the detective inspector, and he informed me that a search was made of the suspect's house. Several photos were found, with traces of blood. They haven't been run through the forensics lab yet, but I'm sure at this point that it's not necessary to make clear who the murderer was."

It took her a few seconds to catch up to what he said; her mind was rather focused on the way his fingers lingered against her cheek, "But I didn't do anything."

He sighed, and stood up. Apparently the friendly Sherlock that had been present the majority of the evening had lost his patience, "Oh, no," he said sarcastically, "You did absolutely nothing," he began to pace, "Apart from discovering what the murder weapon was using only a bit of water, determining the motive, helping me narrow down the suspect list, and, I might add, giving the inspector and I a suggestion which led to the capture of a dangerous criminal. You see," he added, "Absolutely nothing."

Molly stared, "How do you do that?"

He stopped his pacing and turned to face her, "Do what?"

"Compliment me while being insufferably rude."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched. He moved back over to Molly, and seated himself beside on the bed.

She exercised all her willpower to keep from trailing her fingers over his bare chest.

"Molly," he started...And then stopped. He sat there staring at her, his mouth moving as though he wanted to say something but could not form the words.

In truth, within the last few hours, he had become terrified of Molly Hooper. He had never seen a woman so clever since...The Woman. And even Sherlock Holmes could not hide from anyone that he felt something for her.

He did not want to see Molly like this. It was too distracting to his mind. And yet, within the years he had been with John, he had learned, even if he would not admit it, that sometimes, just sometimes, there are other things more important than how quickly one's mind worked.

For example, how utterly breath-taking Molly Hooper looked in fuzzy pink pajama bottoms.

"Molly," he tried again, "I don't know why you persist in being willfully ignorant of the fact that you matter to me," he swallowed, "I have told you that before, and nothing has occurred to me that would possibly change my mind."

She looked down.

 **Why am I saying this?** He asked himself.

 **She's in danger. Best to say it all now in case...**

Nothing was going to actually happen to her, was it?

"Is there a reason?" He asked, purely out of curiosity.

"I-I..." She stammered, "Well..."

"Yes?" He prompted.

"You said I mattered when you needed my help."

"Oh," he said, straightening himself. It had hurt to hear her say that.

Why had it hurt him?

"You think that I only said that to convince you to help me," He stated plainly.

Was it possible that he wanted Molly?

He got up and strode casually to her mirror.

"Yes, Sherlock," She replied demurely, "That's what I think."

Pupils dilated: Check.

He pressed two fingers just below the thumb of his left hand.

Erratic pulse: Check.

He sighed. There was more danger present than the threat of a serial killer hanging over Molly's head. He returned to his seat beside her.

"Why do you keep doing that?" She asked.

"Hm?"

"Pacing back and forth."

"Oh, that," he replied, running a hand through his curls, "No reason. Molly..." He began again, "I know I am quite probably the most obnoxious, offensive, and overall rudest man you have ever know, but I promise you that I was not lying to you then."

He felt his stomach turn slightly when she looked up at him with soft, doe-like eyes. He was overwhelmed with a want to...to lean into her, to touch her, to do _something._

It disturbed him just how much he was starting to want frail little Molly Hooper. How could one woman do this to him in just a few hours?

He touched her face again, trailing his long finger down to her neck. He could tell how much it shocked her. Quite frankly, he was shocking himself. He could not believe what he was doing.

He pulled back quickly, "I'm only staying here to protect you."

Molly's eyes widened, "R-right. Whatever you say, Sherlock," She looked back down at her lap, clearly confused by his actions.

He was not entirely sure how she could go between being the woman that solved his case, and forced him to pick up the mess he had made in her flat, to this woman now, who sat quietly observing him while he fought with himself in his mind.

He wanted to the brilliant Molly Hooper again.

 **How am I supposed to do that?**

 **I may just have to look a bit closer.**

And with that thought, he leaned into her until their bodies were touching.

He watched for her response. She leaned back into him: positive.

He cupped her face in her hands, and he shivered when she placed a cool hand on his chest.

"Would you please just kiss me, Sherlock Holmes?"


	8. Love and Idiocy

Sherlock looked down at Molly Hooper's waiting lips. She closed her eyes and inched her head cautiously up to his.

"Molly," he interrupted.

She leaned back and opened her eyes quickly, disappointment evident in her expression. "Yes?"

"I cannot kiss you," He replied, licking his lips, but finding his mouth too dry to moisten them.

Molly crinkled her brows, "Why not?" she asked demurely, moving herself back from his warm body.

Sherlock gazed down at the floor, trying to sort his rapid thoughts.

"Sherlock?" Molly asked after a moment, "What's wrong?"

Sherlock rose up from his place beside Molly, shrugging his shoulders, "Go to sleep, Molly. I'm going to do some research."

With that, he left the room, not even bothering to find a shirt for himself.

 **Just what is wrong with you?** He asked himself.

* * *

Molly Hooper exuded all the effort she could muster into keeping herself from crying. It was working all right, until she heard Sherlock sigh from the other room.

 **What did I do? I thought he wanted to kiss me.**

The tears started to silently drip down her face. She curled in a ball and buried herself beneath her blanket, trying desperately to hide herself from the outside world.

 **I'd rather be out where the serial killers are** , she thought.

For a moment she contemplated sneaking out of her flat, but after some thought she decided that one, it was far too cold to be going out; two, getting past Sherlock would not be easy; and, three, upon further examination, she did not quite enjoy the fact that there was a serial killer threatening her.

She rolled over on her side, picking up her phone from where she had left it on her night stand.

No messages. Big surprise there.

She unlocked the screen and sent a text message.

 **To: John Watson**

 **Can you try and convince Sherlock to just let the police send someone to watch my flat?**

* * *

Sherlock had lied to her. He was not, in fact, doing research. What he was doing, was sitting on her sofa, with no shirt on, trying to figure out just what about the little pathologist had made him want to break his rules.

 **Obviously, she's proved to me that she is more than a little bit intelligent. Possibly even intelligent enough to keep _me_ interested. I believe I have already established that fact.**

Sherlock was unsure of why he could not stop his mind from revolving back around to Molly. He had already gone over every possibility, three times by his count.

He had already established that an interest in her could conceivably exist.

Then why was it so hard for him to give in to what he had wanted to do?

He had kissed before. Once as an experiment, just so he could feel the effects of the chemicals on his mind. Second, he had kissed the Woman. Well, he had done much more than just kiss her. The odd thing was, that no matter how much he had admired the Woman for her mind, or even for her body, he had never felt any significant emotional bond towards her.

 **Love,** he thought, **I believe that is what they like to call it.**

 **Nothing more than the effects of oxytocin on the brain.**

Those effects were precisely the type of thing that Sherlock Holmes needed to avoid. It would ruin him. He had to stay away from Molly Hooper, no matt-

His thoughts were interrupted by a quiet sobbing sound from the bedroom. He stood up slowly.

He crossed the room and opened the door to the bedroom.

"Molly," he stated authoritatively, "Don't be ridiculous."

He watched her slim figure pull the covers up higher on her face.

He pursed his lips and moved over towards his suitcase. He pulled out a t-shirt,and with one swift movement, brought it over his head.

With his back to Molly, he said, "I am only going to do this once, so please," he paused, "do try not to get used to it."

Sherlock made his way to the bed. Molly had her back towards him. He sat down gingerly beside her, and laid himself parallel to her body.

Uncertainly, and with a slight tremble, he brought one long arm around her frame, and pulled her body close to his. He felt her tense up. He thought she was going to fight back. But she stopped her crying, and leaned closer into his arms. He shut his eyes, slowed his mind, and slept.

* * *

Molly Hooper knew it would not last, and she knew he would want to forget it ever happened when they both woke up, but she let herself enjoy the feeling of his strong arms around her. Her tears stopped, and her heart raced.

She knew she should not let him do it. She knew that she would only wind up being hurt. He always hurt her, every time. But she let him because she was simply foolish, or because she loved him, she could not decipher. It was the one question that had plagued her mind for years: whether she should let him go, or simply wait and savor the few wonderful moments like this that they shared, even if they always wound up with her burying her tear-streaked face in a carton of ice-cream.

Maybe Sherlock was right, after all. Maybe love and idiocy were not that far apart.

* * *

Ya'll guys don't hate me, please. My life is all ready falling apart; in fact, most of Molly's thoughts are taken from me this week.  
Haha, sorry. Love you guys! I got a new laptop, instead of getting my old one fixed, so I am back! Yay!


	9. Coffee Pot

When Molly Hooper woke up the next morning, there was no sign of Sherlock.

 **Well, what exactly were you expecting? You should have seen that one coming for a mile a way.**

She sat up.

 **You did see it coming,** she chided herself, **but everything leading up to it was fun.**

Molly sighed, and ran her slender fingers through a tangled mop of hair. She took a quick look throughout her room and noticed that Sherlock had picked up his clothes that he had scattered out of his suitcase and onto the floor the night before.

 **Well that's one thing to be pleased about.**

She stood up carefully, and crossed the room to her closet.

 **Conservative, or…?**

Molly Hooper almost laughed out loud at the thought of Sherlock viewing any of her clothes as attractive. Accordingly, she dressed as usual.

She jumped ten feet when Sherlock jumped out at her from the doorway to the other room.

"Ah, Molly," he started calmly, "I have some leads that I think you will be quite interested in."

Molly crinkled her brows, "Good morning to you, too, Sherlock."

She did not think she even wanted to maintain the facade that last night hadn't upset her. Truth be told, she wanted to cry when she saw Sherlock in her doorway. She thought for sure that Sherlock would have left. She thought for sure that John would have asked him to leave.

She turned away from him and reached for her phone on the nightstand.

No messages.

"Oh," Sherlock said from across the room, "If you have been messaging John requesting my leave, I would not expect an answer."

He promptly left the room.

 **How…?**

She walked out of the room after him. He sat with his back to her at her table. He had three laptops open.

 **Where did those come from?**

"I believe John became slightly irritated with me last night. I would not expect for him to have kept his phone on after such an event. He does get so touchy..." he trailed off.

Molly sighed, wishing that just once things could have gone her way, "So what did you find?"

He turned around dramatically, piquing his fingers beneath his chin, "I pulled a few strings with my brother," his nose crinkled, "He's been withholding information from me for quite some time."

He turned back around.

 **Great. So this is what I have to deal with now.**

Sherlock Holmes was not proving to be a pleasant man to live with.

Molly shivered when she remembered the way his arms curled around her just last night.

Apparently neither one of them was going to acknowledge that anything of the sort had happened.

She moved closer to where he was seated. She reached out her hand towards his shoulder, waiting for him to turn his head. When he did, she reached out abruptly and shut all three of his laptops, one at a time.

"Sherlock," she started, relishing the shock on his face, "I may be mousy, and you may be able to wrap me around your little finger, but," she smiled, "that's after I have my coffee. You have some explaining to do."

"Right," he said, stretching out the word, "Mycroft's men-"

"No, no. I want to know about last night."

He blinked.

"Why can't I expect you to do that ever again? You've already started."

He stilled.

"Well?" She prompted.

He did not move, "I will have to think about it."

"That's not a good answer, Sherlock."

"I'm afraid that it's the only one that I have."

She sighed, "All right, then. Well what about not kissing me?"

He still remained silent.

"Sherlock?" She asked impatiently.

"I'm afraid," he began, "that I have no concrete answer to those questions."

Molly rubbed her eyes with her hands. Sherlock scoffed at her.

"Now," he resumed, "If we may get back to the matter at hand-please do remember that there is a serial killer after you—I gained some...valuable information from my brother last night."

Molly perked her head up, "Last night? When?"

Sherlock turned his head back and reopened all of his laptops, slowly and deliberately.

"Perhaps it was closer to this morning."

"Well, what was it?"

Sherlock smiled briefly, "As it turns out, at several points in time, Mycroft has sent his men out to investigate reports of a man resembling Moriarty spotted in different countries."

"Where? What did they find?"

He grinned again, "You name a country, and someone will have claimed to have seen him there."

She grew impatient, "Well, did anyone actually see the real Moriarty?"

"I don't know," he said, turning his chair to face her, "here's what I do know," he handed her a file that he seemed to have pulled from the thin air.

"When did you get this?" She inquired, handling the paper.

"Also sometime this morning."

Molly glanced into the kitchen at the timer on her microwave.

 **10:00**

 **Lucky thing I've been excused from work.**

She looked back down at the file in her hands. Flipping through, she saw pictures of the man she knew so well as "Jim from IT."

"Well he's been busy," she said, reading the label, "South America, Saudi Arabia...America—Hawaii, really?"

"I imagine that even 'evil geniuses,'" he made quotations in the air with his fingers, "need a vacation every now and then."

Molly eyed him suspiciously.

Was he...Was he trying to make a joke?

She was not entirely sure, and she did not think she wanted to risk laughing at him. So instead, she kept flipping through the file. It was more of the same, over and over again. Pictures of a man resembling Jim, along with a report about an investigation done by his brother's...agents...or whatever it was they were. Mycroft Holmes was not a subject she wished to delve into with Sherlock.

"So...Is there anything linking Moriarty to the threat?" She asked.

"Possibly," he replied curtly, "I have my people out investigating."

Molly tossed the file down onto the table and walked into her kitchen. She was shocked to see a cup of coffee on the counter.

There was a note beneath.

 **"Molly"**

"That's probably cold now!" Sherlock shouted.

Molly laughed, "I guess I'll have it iced."

* * *

Sherlock had, in fact, received several calls and texts from John requesting to speak about Molly. He finally consented to answering one at about 4:30.

 _"Sherlock? I called you twelve times!"_

 _"Yes, yes. I am highly aware of that," Sherlock answered, pacing in Molly's kitchen._

 _John sighed audibly, "What have you done now? Molly wants me to get you to leave already!"_

 _Sherlock rubbed his face, "Did you answer her?"_

 _There was a pause, "No. I thought I would talk to you first."_

 _He exhaled, "Well, please refrain from doing so."_

 _"What did you do?" He repeated._

 _"Nothing, I'm just refusing to deviate from my investigation."_

 _Another pause._

 _"This doesn't have anything to do with...The whole sleeping with her thing, does it?"_

 _Sherlock didn't answer._

 _"Sherlock." he laughed, "What on earth did you do?"_

 _"I refused to deviate from my investigation."_

 _"But how?"_

 _"By refusing to participate in activities outside the spectrum of my investigation."_

 _Sherlock could practically feel John's irritation through the phone._

 _He could tell that John was taking a moment to calm himself._

 _"Molly still wants you gone...Whatever it is that you did to her."_

 _"I told you, I refuse-"_

 _"YOU REFUSED TO DEVIATE FROM YOUR INVESTIGATION!"_

 _"I'm going to have to hang up if you cannot control yourself, John."_

 _"This conversation is going nowhere. I'm coming by in the morning. I will drag you out of there if I have to. Please try to do something nice for Molly in the interim."_

 _John hung up._

 _ **Something nice,** Sherlock thought, **Why?**_

 ** _It's not my fault she cannot control her emotions._**

 _Sherlock looked at the coffee pot on the counter._

 ** _Well...I suppose if I must._**

John had yet to come, and his wonderfully brewed coffee had already been spoiled by this point.


	10. Making Eyes

Ok, sorry for not writing anything. Crazy stuff happening. Anyway, this is a super short, transitional sorta chapter.

* * *

Sherlock refused to move when he heard the knock on the door. He wondered why on earth it had taken John this long to come and get him in the first place. He wasn't going to leave, of course. He had to stay for Molly's sake.

He knew she still had to be angry with him for what had happened the previous night; a cup of ruined coffee wasn't going to fix that. But she of all people should have understood that his work came before anything else. His work had to come before any...explorations of his odd feelings towards Molly.

There was that word again.

He still had to stay.

But…On the other hand, he knew he wasn't working as efficiently as could be. Perhaps if he went away for a while to sort things out, it would be better for all those concerned.

But who would be capable enough to watch out for Molly?

"Sherlock, couldn't you please get that?" yelled Molly from the kitchen.

Sherlock grumbled under his breath, but complied with her request all the same.

"John," he begun as he swung the door open, "I don't need you to come and fetch me like I'm some ch-" he stopped mid-sentence. "Lestrade? What are you doing here?"

The inspector wiped his face with one hand and looked up at Sherlock, "I've come to see if you've figured anything out."

Sherlock sighed, "Nothing terribly important, no."

"Well then," he perked up, "Maybe if you need someone else to stay with Molly while you investigate outside the premises, I could help. I am available."

Sherlock grimaced, stepping outside, and slamming the door behind him. "Oh, I don't think so, Greg," Lestrade' eyes widened.

"Is there any reason you're so dreadfully against it? It must have been quite a shock, me offering," he leaned in closer, "You remembered my name and everything."

Sherlock regained his composure, and stated very matter-of-factly, "Given the way I observed you eyeing Miss Hooper in my flat a few years back, and on the subsequent occasions I have seen you together, I do not think it would be such a leap to assume that you have some feelings for her. Obviously that would interfere with any protection you plan to provide, or any research you attempt as well as you can." He looked down.

Lestrade blinked, "Me?" he poked a finger against his own chest, "I've been eyeing Molly?" Sherlock did not like where this conversation was headed.

"Yes. Why is that in question?" He shook his head, and attempted to look innocent. He knew he might as well have been describing himself.

He snickered, "I couldn't even get your attention last night, what with the way you kept staring at Molly with those big, googly eyes. I swear, Sher-"

"Excuse me?" he interrupted, "Googly eyes? What on earth are those?"

Lestrade tilted his head, "They're what you get every time Molly walks by you."

Sherlock pursed his lips and stood up rigidly, "You're mistaken."

He grinned back at him, "Sure I am. Look, I've been seeing that new woman in forensics. I don't have a thing for Molly. Promise," he paused, "Now will you let me stay here while you go out and make yourself useful?"

"No," he answered immediately.

"Why not?" He asked with clear irritation.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, "You didn't happen to see John on your way up here, did you? He was supposed to be here." John being late to come see Sherlock would not have normally been an issue. But John being late while a psychotic criminal hell-bent on burning Sherlock was out there somewhere...That was an issue.

"No I didn't. I suppose you'd let him stay with Molly, wouldn't you?"

Sherlock turned around and entered Molly's flat again, slamming the door in Lestrade's face.

"Hey!" Came a muffled shout from outside.

"Who was that?" asked Molly from a seat on her sofa.

"Nobody," Sherlock answered while he pulled his phone out from his pocket.

When Lestrade yelled again, Molly rose with a sigh to go and answer him.

Sherlock dialed John's number. His call went straight to voicemail.

"Damn," he turned again to face Lestrade and Molly, "Gavin, stay with Molly, I'm going out for a while."


	11. Our Place

Hey, guys! Well...I don't even know where to begin in explaining why I haven't written anything, in, like, forever! All I can say is, I'm back now, and hopefully I can make up for some of the time that I've been gone.

Sherlock didn't bother to knock on the door to John's flat; he had his own key (obviously), and the best place for him to start searching for clues was the only place he knew that John had been in the last few hours. If Moriarty was behind his disappearance, every second would count from here on out.

"Mary?" He shouted upon entering, "Mary?"

"In here, Sherlock!"

Sherlock followed the trail of her voice to the open door of the bedroom where Mary lay, reading a book and sipping on a steaming mug.

"What is it you want?" She adjusted herself on her pillow, "Scared me, you know."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "Yes, I can tell by the handgun you're currently sitting on; shameful that you're so far into your pregnancy you couldn't bother yourself to move when I came in," she sighed at the comment; he smirked before continuing, "Now, where, exactly, was the last place that you saw your husband?"

"What?" Her eyes widened, "I thought he went to see you!"

Sherlock began to pace back and forth in the door frame, "Yes, so did I. He never made it to Molly's flat. I tried calling him several times on the way over here, but the phone went straight to voicemail, and I find it unlikely that his phone would _still_ be turned off. He couldn't have been _that_ annoyed with me," he halted, "You didn't notice anything unusual about him before he left, did you?"

Mary sat straight up and deposited her mug on the table beside her bed, "Not except for him being absolutely exhausted," she eyed Sherlock accusingly, "I made him take a cab instead of cycling over."

 **That could be something**.

"And did you notice anything unusual about the cab driver?"

"No..." She glanced upward, "Well, I couldn't see his face, come to think of it. I walked downstairs with John, but the cabbie seemed adamant about avoiding eye contact. He mumbled a bit. John wasn't too thrilled."

 **That could be something, too. I'm surprised she wasn't alarmed by his behavior.**

He grimaced, "I can imagine."

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" She stood up, "Where's John?"

"I don't know yet," he motioned with his hands for her to sit back down,"But I'm going to find out." He seated himself on the edge of her bed, and peaked his slender fingers beneath his chin. "It could be just like before."

"Hm?"

"Well," he turned his head, "It would not be the first time that Moriarty has posed as a cab driver. That is, assuming it is Moriarty."

"Yeah, well," she replied, "How would that help us, even if it was?"

"It would help us," Sherlock raised himself from up off the bed, "in that Moriarty always leaves clues."

"Clues to what?" She raised her voice, "Just what do you think has happened to John?"

Sherlock inhaled sharply, "As I said, I don't know. But...You said you made him take the cab?"

"Yes," she nodded.

"That's a start," Sherlock raised himself from off of the bed, "Did you call?"

"No," her expression flattened, "He was...he was driving right by when John decided it was time to leave. Saw him from the window. He thought it was the most convenient thing."

"Ah," Sherlock mumbled, and left the room, despite a brief protest from Mary.

John kept his bicycle on the balcony. He wouldn't keep it the building's storage room, not for anything. If Moriarty was going to leave a clue, then why not on the one object John wouldn't touch that morning?

 **That would mean he's been watching us.**

 **How?**

Sherlock slid the glass door open; he turned his collar up to the wind.

 **There could be some tiny, insignificant clue that gives me warning to John's location and situation. Something barely traceable, something that would take time to have analyzed. But...He wouldn't have taken John if he didn't want my attention immediately. Why prolong the search by making it hard to find?**

 **Why not just write me a bloody note?**

Sherlock eyed the spokes of the front tire.

 **Oh, how thoughtful of him.**

* * *

"Bart's hospital," Sherlock slid himself into the backseat of a cab, "and hurry."

His brow furrowed as he took the note out of his pocket to read it once more.

 **Our place. Hugs and kisses, Jim.**


	12. Missed You

Sherlock cautiously opened the door leading to the roof of St. Bartholomew's hospital. As welcoming as the sight of an unharmed John Watson was, the sight of an unharmed Jim Moriarty was equally distasteful.

"Ah! Sherl, my darling" he crooned, "so glad you could make it in such a timely manner." Sherlock stayed put, as Moriarty had positioned his gun securely against John's temple. "After all," he continued, "I was kind enough to leave a note for you."

Sherlock took a cautiously measured step towards the pair, but Moriarty clicked his tongue. "Now, now, Sherl, I don't intend to hurt the dear doctor here," he paused and gazed at the sky, "as long as you promise not to hurt me."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, "then precisely what is it you want?"

"I want you, Sherlock," he winked, "but everyone knows the way to Sherlock Holmes is through Doctor Watson." John and Sherlock locked eyes, and Moriarty pursed his lips, "What they don't know is the back door to Sherlock's heart. You know it, don't you?"

Sherlock's eyes widened.

"Yes, yes you do. It was careless of you to leave her all alone…well, practically alone. You really think that one yard officer is enough to keep her safe from my men?"

"You're mistaken," Sherlock replied, stepping forward once again, and ceasing when Moriarty jerked the arm that held the gun, "I left her with more than just one blithering idiot from the yard,"

Moriarty shook his head in disappointment, "Now, now Sherlock. We both know you let your guard down after I, er," he giggled, "kicked the bucket. Do you know how easy it was to plant cameras and bugs all around your flat? You were practically asking for it when you left this simpleton," he jammed the gun into John's temple, eliciting a wince, "in charge of 221B. If I could get them past you, then surely, I could put some in your friend's homes," he leaned his face close John's, "Your wife isn't so observant when she's this pregnant, now is she?"

John inhaled sharply, "Get your face away from me."

"Oh-oh! Still feisty? Even with a gun to your head!" He turned his face away from John's dismissively, "That is why you like him after all."

Sherlock grit his teeth, "What do you want from me?"

"I told you," he sniffled, "I want you. I want darling Sherlock's heart."

"Oh," he replied, "is that so? I thought you'd already 'burned,'" he made imaginary quotations, "my heart, if I'm not mistaken. Did it not work?"

Moriarty grimaced, "Do you know what I did wrong?"

"You didn't die the first time?" John threw in for commentary.

The side of Sherlock's mouth twitched.

"No," he elongated the word, "I made an assumption. I assumed that you had three friends, each fulfilling their own role for you. Mrs. Hudson, a complex woman that provides you with a constant motherly affection…Lestrade, an ordinary man for you to impress, to make you feel needed…and John Watson, your…lover?" He shook his head, "No, no, how wrong. John Watson is a blend of the first two. He provides you with steady affection, and he places you on a pedestal," he rolled his eyes, "He loves you; yes, yes, he does."

"I do wish you would hurry to the relevant part."

He grinned, "Oh, but you know, I know you know. You love John Watson, but you find sexual, romantic love repulsive, don't you? You'd never allow yourself to admit there was someone you truly wanted to be your lover."

"Sherlock," John interjected, "what has he done?"

Sherlock swallowed.

"Do you want to tell him, Sherlock, or shall I?"

Sherlock made no reply but stepped close enough to be face-to-face with Moriarty at the edge of the building.

"What have you done with her?" He growled.

"Hmm…" he began, scratching his chin with the barrel of the gun and releasing his grip on John, "I do so hate to be cliched, but that's for you to find out."

John backed away to Sherlock's side as Moriarty leveled the gun at them.

"Isn't this fun? I made a new game for us. I know you've missed me. You have missed me, haven't you?"

John mumbled under his breath, "Why exactly isn't he dead?"

"I don't know," came the subdued reply, "Give me a minute."

"Oh, surely you don't want to know why I'm not dead. Not yet anyway. That's part of the fun," he crept forward until his face was inches from Sherlock's, pressing the gun into his side, "You beat me last time; you won't do it again. I know how to break you now. Remember that."

He moved backward suddenly. "Anyway!" He began in a chipper tone, "I really must be off; mustn't keep the little lady waiting." He walked nonchalantly towards the exit, but turned before he reached the door, "Oh, and Sherlock?"

Sherlock held his gaze.

"If you come after me before I tell you to…She dies. Bye bye, now!" He opened and shut the door in a dramatic manner.

John turned to Sherlock as soon as the door shut all the way.

"You shouldn't have come here."

Sherlock's brow creased, "What else was I supposed to do? Leave you to die and me to deal with your hysterical wife?"

"He wasn't going to do anything to me; he just wanted to get at Molly."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but shut it just as quickly. After another minute under John's scrutinizing gaze, he answered, "You're right. I've been foolish."

John inhaled, "We can discuss it later; right now we need to see what shape Lestrade is in."


	13. A Prize

Upon return to Molly's flat, sherlock and John found Lestrade passed out on the couch. Sherlock sniffed around his face once, before muttering "chloroform," and continuing his investigation of the flat. He mind had clearly been so clouded by thoughts of Richard Morrell and his unprecedented feelings for Molly (which, as he had suspected, ended in a detrimental manner), that he was unable to perceive that they were, in fact, being constantly monitored by Moriarty.

 _He's alive. I saw the pictures. But now I've seen the man._

Regardless of whether he would admit it, first and foremost in his mind was whether or not Molly was in good health. It was almost a paradox that it was appropriate now for his concern to be centered on Molly, while that was the very thing that had put into motion this dreadful plot.

Despite being distracted, his search of the flat revealed three precisely hidden cameras, and five microphones. He was highly displeased at the fact that one of the cameras was located in Molly's bedroom.

 _Perhaps if I hadn't been so weak, if I hadn't given into Molly's wants…to my, feelings…this would not have happened._

* * *

Molly had ceased to struggle after the first fifteen minutes she had been bound. Moriarty had sent three appropriately sized men to make quick work of Lestrade and capture her without any difficulty.

She was blindfolded, stuffed in a terribly cramped trunk, and carted off to God-knows where. Her blindfold was removed when she had been escorted to a cramped room with a single chair; quite like an interrogation room.

She was sure she would be seeing Moriarty any second now.

 _Jim from IT. That cute, harmless man._

* * *

Sherlock's mind was not operating properly. How was Moriarty alive?

 _I've run through every scenario, none of them makes any sense. It can't be possible. Can it?_

"John," Sherlock began, "I've run through every complex scenario I can. I need an id-…a doctor's opinion. How did he do it?"

John and Sherlock had returned to 221B after Lestrade had been given the proper attention and Molly's flat had bee thoroughly searched. A search of 221B's flat led to the discovery of several more, comparatively cleverly hidden cameras and bugs, all of which were thought to have been removed.

John looked up towards his companion, "Remind me again, which one of us is the world-renowned detective?"

Sherlock released an exasperated sigh. John had been less himself than even Sherlock since their encounter with Moriarty. Mary was, of course, ecstatic at the safe return of her husband, and only slightly irritated when Sherlock almost immediately insisted on returning to his flat for assistance.

"Assistance," in this case, consisted of sitting in a perpetual silence, permeated occasionally by an angry growl from Sherlock, followed by a sigh from John. They were far from any breakthroughs, and no sign had yet to be sent by Moriarty to the pair.

* * *

"Hello, my dear, long time, no see."

Molly scowled up at the man in front of her, unable to move, as she been restrained to that lonely chair.

"What do you want with me?"

Moriarty leaned up against the wall, and a ran a hand through his hair.

"Why did you take me here?"

He smiled innocently at her, "Aggressive, aren't we? Still angry about the break-up?"

She frowned, knowing full-well how things had ended between them.

"Don't worry," he straightened up and approached her, "I have every intention of telling you why I brought you here." He stroked her cheek, "How could I leave my dear Molly in the dark?"

"You did have me tied up in a trunk for several hours, I'd say that counts."

He smirked, "You are quite catty when that curly haired 'detective,'" he made exaggerated quotations in the air, "isn't around, now aren't you?"

A pause followed.

"Now, since you asked _so nicely,_ I'll tell you exactly why I brought you here."

"I'm waiting."

"It's simple, really. You see," he waved his arms in the air and turned dramatically, "Sherlock Holmes, for all his _genius,_ is positively idiotic…perhaps I was idiotic to not realize this in the first time, but you and I…we're going to remedy that."

Molly swallowed, "That's not an answer to any of my questions."

"Patience, dear. Patience. You see, Sherlock Holmes doesn't embrace his feelings. I do!" He emphasized the last portion, grinning with boyish glee, "Only the good ones, of course. Hatred, envy, lust. You know. Sherlock, on the other hand, has made it his life's mission to look at _everything_ objectively. He has to, after all."

Molly interrupted, "You're forgetting that he only does that to for a substitute to getting high. He does feel pleasure."

Moriarty scowled, and approached Molly again, "Honey," he cupped her face in his hand and squeezed, "I do wish you'd stop interrupting me."

Molly squinted up at him in displeasure.

"Maybe I won't tell you everything after all."

She made no reply, and he released her chin.

He smiled, and jumped, "Oh! Who am I kidding? This part is the most fun! Sherlock doesn't know how much he loves you," Molly furrowed her brow in confusion, "Yes, I said _loves_. That will be his downfall. He'll do all he can to save you. He'll solve my riddles, he'll dance for me, he'll be my puppet…And when it's all over, I'll snatch victory away from him at the last moment," he locked eyes with his captive, "Do you know what I intend to do, my dear?"

"You're going to kill me."

He smashed his hand down in the air, twice, "Ding-ding, someone give this woman a prize! We're going to have so much fun together!"


End file.
